We’re in Wales, well Buckley, on a wet Saturday night on what feels like the start of winter. The accents in the queue are thick with wool. Why the queue? Technical difficulties are holding back the doors. I always wonder why they don’t just let us in, they’re not keeping a secret from us. We know how bands sound check. The bar is still working.
Johann is nervous, I missed the deadline for last review, by some way, a gig I requested. There is talk of interlopers, a support slot for the headlining act. I don’t blame him, I’m a naturally lazy fucker and he’s not. I must be a pain in the arse to know.